The Red Door

THE RED DOOR

Rosa Fedele

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Copyright 2017 © Rosa Fedele

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Licence Notes

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

DEDICATION

For my family, who gave me the encouragement and support to bring The Red Door into the world.

Domenica, my blessing and eternal muse. If I could give you one thing in life, I would give you the ability to see yourself through my eyes, only then would you realise how amazing you are.

Travis, who was one of my staunchest supporters from the very beginning.

Myles, you asked me (although you probably don’t even remember!) to include the words ‘I’m a Ninja’ in the book. So I did.

And finally, Mike. You have ever been by my side – without you, I would have never had the courage to strive, to reach out for my goals. You are an inspiration to me, and I love you completely and utterly.

THE RED DOOR

Rosa Fedele

PROLOGUE

Glebe, Sydney

THE SKY WAS pale and colourless when I dug the grave; it was early, pre-dawn, and the air still, the trees unmoving. It seemed as though the world were holding its breath, and watching what I was about to do. The earth was embedded under my fingernails and into the creases of my hands, but it didn’t matter; this was not a time to wear gloves – I wanted to savour the texture of the granules on my fingertips and in my palms, and imprint the sensation onto my skin. It was important to finish before the breeze came up, but I could barely see through the tears which soaked my face and spilled into the freshly turned soil. I patted the earth down, taking utmost care that the fine ivory dust was completely secure.

The first rosy tendrils of morning sunlight picked their way through the fragrant leaves of the eucalyptus; beams glinting upon the wavelets in the fountain, a dazzling show of flashing diamonds, the rays warming my back and smiling down upon the garden.

THE SYDNEY HERALD

Your Local Real Estate

‘Rosalind’

Built by Hubert Ross circa 1868. An asymmetrical cottage with a tower in the re-entrant angle above the front entrance: un-rendered sandstock brick facade, robust carving to sandstone lintels and wooden barge boards, patterned and moulded brickwork, gabled slate roof. This unusual house appears to be the earliest example of high Victorian domestic architecture in Glebe, Sydney.

Condition and Integrity: In need of restoration.

Inspection by Appointment

Several Months Before

JOHAN TOOK A sharp intake of breath and froze. The spasm raced through his lower back, making his head swim and a wave of nausea wash over him. The pain was excruciating. He dropped the nail gun to the floor and gripped the doorframe with one hand to sturdy himself. With slow, measured breaths, he tried to stand back up.

Shit! This was all he needed. It was the bloody cold which made his back seize up; always freezing up here on the gallery, like standing inside a glacier. He hadn’t been this cold since he went skiing with his cousins Hendrik and Stef in Funäsfjalen. He made his way over to the tall window and leaned against the sill, waiting for the burning jabs to lessen. Outside in the courtyard the old Bobcat groaned and creaked its way back and forth. The machine was held together with spit and tape, and the screeching fan belt usually set Johan’s teeth on edge, but up here you couldn’t hear it at all. He tapped the thin glass. The putty securing the flimsy pane was chipped and flaking. How could it possibly muffle that racket downstairs?

He exhaled, a soft white plume of breath curling from his lips. Massaging his back he looked around. The job wouldn’t be finished this week, or the next. One setback after another. Johan wanted to be well shot of the whole place.

Yesterday, old Mats had been rushed off to the emergency room – a deep slice right through the base of his hand while planing back the architrave around the door, klumpig gammal get! A shocking red fountain gushed from Mat’s wrist, spraying across his face and chest. Johan’s gut had roiled and he’d swallowed repeatedly, trying not to vomit. I swear, how could someone so experienced be so clumsy? A smear of blood still remained on the wall; maybe the painter could fix it. When Johan called Mats at the Royal Prince Alfred hospital, the man had been gibbering on and on about somebody breathing down his neck and laughing at him. Johan couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying, and put it down to the morphine. Now he’d have to hurry up and find another chippie to help him. After the Scandinavians, the Italians were the best at restoration work. Maybe he would see if Giosofatto was free ...

The portable work lamp sizzled, spat and extinguished with a loud pistol shot.

‘Fuck!’ Johan yelled. ‘Not again. You useless piece of–’ He aimed a kick and sent it skittering across the floor. Everything was going wrong, everything.

Abruptly he span around, sure that he was not alone. Had the noise disturbed the tenant in Number Three? He could have sworn he heard a low snickering, but the door to the apartment remained resolutely closed. How could the strange man, who stubbornly continued to live there during the renovations, possibly put up with all the construction noise around him? Why didn’t he move out? Another agonising spasm shot out from his oblique and Johan doubled over with pain again.

He decided he would go and tell James where to stick this job. Maybe he could start on the terrace on Johnston Street or the new development over in Mosman? But he had already made a commitment to James. And they needed the money; Krista was due in just over two months and soon she would stop working at the chemist.

Krista. The old man is fucking your wife. Unexpected and unbidden, strident and shrill, the words reverberated in Johan’s mind. A sickening realisation flooded through him (what an idiot he had been not to realise!); that feeble excuse of a man, the old pharmacist, had been having an affair with his wife! The dirty old perv, Johan could just see him now; hiding behind the counter and waiting for Krista to bend over and stack the bottom shelf, craning his filthy head out from around the cash register, leering and hungry, waiting for her hem to ride up so that he could see her–

But wait, was the baby even his?

Johan’s stomach lurched. A gripping fury seared his chest and he clutched at the sill. Righteous anger, blazing vengeful and true, instantly propelled him towards the stairs. Punish her. Punish them both. He resolved to go to the chemist, right there and then, and confront them. How could she, unfaithful whore! Use the mallet. He would be unforgiving, ruthless. Use the mallet, bash in his head. Hunched over like an old man and holding tight to the balustrade, he began to make his way downstairs. His chest, heaving with silent sobs, was filled with the thought that, even now, they were probably in the stockroom – the dirty old man wrapped around her with his dirty-old-man’s hand sliding inside her panties – she would pay for her faithlessness, adulterous slut! Make them suffer. Another low chuckle ricocheted around the gallery. Johan stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. The door to Number Three was still closed; there was definitely no one there.

Confused and shaking his head, he continued his careful descent, each step coming easier. But why would she, he tried to reason, what could Krista possibly see in the old bastard? He was easily over fifty years old with a face like a sack of spanners! She would no sooner look at him than she would a priest. Surely he was mistaken.

Reaching the front door and stepping into the sunlight, Johan dared to stretch his arms up and straighten. The pain was subsiding. How wonderful, those warming rays on his face. Krista with that pharmacist? What a ridiculous idea! Johan was proud of his chiselled Scandinavian features and broad chest: he had nothing to worry about. In fact, he didn’t know what caused the idea to enter his mind! A break and a walk to stretch would do him a world of good. Each step he took straightened him out, and by the time he reached his ute parked out on the street, the ache had passed.

A brilliant summer day. Krista would probably enjoy some fish and chips at Manly Beach tonight. She would appreciate not having to cook after being on her feet all day. Looking back at the house he wondered if they would ever be able to afford to live in such a home. It was a beautiful old place.

Although a premonitory warning fluttered in the back of his mind, Johan decided he would stay on and make sure the job was finished properly.

October, 1983

‘He’s watching me.’

October, 1983

HE STRODE PAST, all sun-burnished skin and bleached hair. It was his swagger which drew the eye: a compelling mix of insouciance and arrogance, achieved only by those who are either extraordinarily attractive, or very sure of themselves. I had secretly named him Harrison Ford, due to his startling resemblance to the actor. His old blue Falcon was parked at the kerb. He always parked in the same shady position, under the claret ash. Today he wore a tight green T-shirt that read ‘What Cup?’ He nodded a casual hello and bounded up the steps, two by two, into the main house, leaving a tantalising trail of fresh cologne. I gaped as his cheeky bottom in his cheeky jeans vanished from view.

‘Gorgeous!’ breathed Anne into my ear. ‘If I hear another word about that bloody America’s Cup, though ...’

I jumped. ‘Where did you come from?’

‘So, who is he?’ Anne asked instead. Her cheeks were rosy and a mischievous glint shone in her eyes.

Anne was a joyous creature, brimming with an energy and effervescence that I’d never seen in a woman her age; she had easily ten years on me, but I marvelled at her ability to run circles around me. She popped by every other day during the building project; the builders adored her, and Anne adored them back. Especially Antonino. They flirted shamelessly, and she would swing her hips as she passed by him, giving me a secret wink.

Purchased as a deteriorating dump two years ago, several well-meaning people suggested I demolish Rosalind and build modern apartments. Level the house? I despised the idea. It was the charming sandstock brickwork, the bay windows and the gracious staircase that originally drew me – the detail in the arches and the cornices, the old elegance. The tower. It was once a prestigious home, but in the last century Rosalind had functioned, amongst other things, as a schoolhouse, a guesthouse and finally a low cost boarding house. When first I saw the old place, it was practically unliveable.

Four flats, two up and two down and a ground floor wing extending to the western side, previously used as a coach house. Part of the roof was missing and water leaked from somewhere through into the stairwell. Mould was creeping up the walls, and torn and discoloured linoleum covered all the floors. The kitchen cupboards were rotten and dirty, with cockroach and rat detritus in the corners. I couldn’t even bear to remember the condition of the bathrooms, especially Number One’s, which had an unidentifiable brown stain in the ceiling. It was squalor. And the smell!

James, the owner of the construction company, introduced his hotch-potch team of builders and they swarmed in, oozing confidence, happily swinging tools and cursing – a United Nations of trades. Antonino the foreman, smooth and Italian. Danik the beer bellied tiler, leering and saucy. Bryson the charming Welsh electrician. Jim the plumber, jolly and convivial. Teddy-Have-A-Chat, the painter. And Johan the carpenter. He was Danish, or Swedish or Finnish – I couldn’t tell which – and it made no difference anyway, as he had left the job months ago in a cloud of uncertainty and disturbing rumours. It had been all been exceedingly bizarre.

James extolled Johan’s workmanship from the outset and particularly wanted to bring him in to restore the intricate timberwork of the balustrading, skirtings and doorways in the entrance and first floor gallery of the house. It was specialised work, and James was insistent on using Johan’s expertise. Then, an inexplicable series of unhappy accidents befell the tradesmen working at the top of the stairs. Johan’s assistant was hospitalised several weeks into the job with a dreadful injury to his arm, and replaced with a gruff Italian named Giosofatto. Not a month passed and this man walked off the site, waving his arms and babbling in a continental fury. Teddy told everyone who would listen that he had seen Giosofatto standing at the gates afterwards, staring up at the gallery window and crossing himself. James then called in a favour from an old friend, a skilled artisan who was working on a magnificent old mansion in the prestigious suburb of Vaucluse, who agreed to assist Johan in completing the joinery. He lasted a whole week. After complaining about his power tools shorting over and over, and that he didn’t appreciate being watched and laughed at by the tenant who lived on the second floor, a sudden debilitating migraine overcame him and his wife turned up to collect and take him home. Within days, Johan resigned from the job and the story which swept amongst the gossiping tradies was that he had assaulted his wife’s employer, been arrested, and admitted into a psychiatric care facility.

What remained of the restoration work was completed by Antonino. A few more of the tradies working inside the house sustained minor injuries, and poor Bryson managed to electrocute himself while attending to a recurring fault in the lights above the gallery. But James reassured me, saying it was all par for the course. ‘Bound to happen on a big job like this,’ he said.

Finally, the building was stripped back, re-plumbed and re-wired. The roof was repaired with reclaimed slate tiles, and wonderful wood floors revealed. Modern kitchens and contemporary new bathrooms were installed, the interiors painted and the floors sanded and polished.

On some days I stood at the front of the house, looking critically at the building, almost giddy with the magnitude of the project I had taken on. At last, the place looked like the elegant residence and coach house it was meant to, and not the wreck of the Hesperus. A glossy red door now fronted the main building with the original granite steps leading down onto the courtyard. Standing beside the resurrected stone fountain, I surveyed Rosalind with an empowering sense of pride and ownership. My chest throbbed with a warm bloom of well-being and, dared I hope, happiness?

Anne and I goggled as Harrison Ford’s figure disappeared through the red door and then craned our heads up, mouths open, to Number Four’s window on the second floor. There was no movement, and no sound.

‘Worked it out yet?’ Anne persisted. ‘When are you going to ask your tenant who he is?’

‘Well, I’m not going to ask her something like that! That would be too blatant,’ I changed the subject. ‘So, what are you up to today?’

Anne gave me a peck on the cheek and a pat on the bottom, and bustled through the wrought iron gates, letting them slam behind her as she trotted off towards the village. I winced. Those gates are worth a small fortune, please stop slamming them.

The fountain bubbled, young water plants waving and crystals of light glistening as the water spilled over the edges. It had cleaned up beautifully, the cracks and missing chips adding to the fountain’s charm and I trickled my finger along the fluted edge. The new border of young native rosemary rippled in the breeze and the gravelled courtyard shone in the sunlight. As Mary Poppins might have said, it was practically perfect.

Except for Number Three. Taking one last glance upwards before I went in, my eye was inevitably drawn towards the dowdy, yellowed lace curtains. Had they moved? I was sure they had. They were now slightly pulled to the right.

He’s watching me.

* * *

‘Anne, how did you get through the gate today without my seeing you?’

It was the second time today she had turned up unannounced, however this time with her friends Monique and Josephine in tow. Anne didn’t answer my question but instead waved a bottle of Cointreau in the air, declaring that it was time for fivesies (it was only four o’clock) and the girls were dying to see my studio.

They were an unlikely trio of friends. Plump and petite and always displaying the newest asymmetric, and outlandish, haircut, Anne wore flamboyant oranges and eye-jarring greens, with oddly-shaped spectacles perched on her tip-tilted nose. Josephine was her polar opposite; a quietly dressed and quietly spoken schoolteacher, whose conservative exterior belied a sharp, and deadly, sense of humour. Monique was another type of creature altogether: startlingly tall and thin, her clothes always carried a label, and she made sure that everyone around her knew exactly what that label was. Today, her long brightly-manicured toes were hanging grotesquely over the edges of her absurdly high stiletto shoes.

‘God, what a day! The queues at David Jones ...’ She leaned against the doorpost and scanned the room. Seeing the sofa, she immediately tottered over and flung herself down with sigh, tossing her Gucci handbag carelessly onto the coffee table.

I was embarrassed – the place was a mess. I had an unfinished sketch I was aching to return to. And, of course, young Claudia had also arrived for her random afternoon visit.

I first met the girl one gusty day in September when her stupid school hat blew smack into a semi-wet canvas I was transporting into a courier van. ‘No!’ I’d cried out, and then I saw the slender, dark-haired waif standing before me, tears in her hazel eyes, the very picture of a da Vinci Madonna. Such long eyelashes. We peeled the hat away carefully, but it was too late. The painting was smeared. After I apologised to the disgruntled driver and he stamped off, she followed me into the studio. Standing before my drawing board she gasped with joy, and there our hesitant friendship began. She sat apart from us now, seemingly engrossed in ‘The Artists Complete Guide to Figure Drawing’, but listening intently to every word.

Anne turned to Monique, continuing a conversation they’d obviously started earlier.

‘Anyway, he turns up a couple of times every week, usually in the mornings. About eleven, but sometimes a bit later. An absolute dish. Stays for an hour or two, then leaves. What do they do up there? Is it your tenant’s son, do you think?’ She turned and looked at me as she asked this last question. I stared at her for the long moment it took me to realise that she was actually talking about Harrison Ford.

‘Well ...’ I mumbled, perturbed at Anne’s acute observations. ‘I think she does have a son. I’m sure she mentioned a son.’

‘Your tenant’s a lawyer, right?’ pried Monique. ‘I wonder why she’s renting then – surely she can afford a house of her own?’

‘Maybe it’s a personal fitness instructor?’ Josephine suggested.

‘What, dressed like that?’ spluttered Anne.

‘Why, how’s he dressed?’

Anne drooled. ‘Drop dead gorgeous. Maybe it’s her man-whore.’

‘Anne!’ screeched Monique, ‘You old tart!’

My skin goosed as I remembered tanned forearms brush against my skin.

‘Harrison Ford,’ I murmured, dreamily twirling the end of my plait through my fingers.

‘What?’

‘Harrison Ford. That’s who he looks like, but young. Blonder.’

They all looked at me, surprised.

Claudia’s brown curls hid her smirk.

Monique’s attention span reached its limit. ‘Do you know what That Arse of a Husband has done now?’

For once, I was glad that she had hijacked the conversation and asked with feigned interest, ‘What?’

Wearily, everyone turned to Monique, preparing for an hour’s diatribe about That Arse of a Husband. No one would be able to get a word in now, and I would never finish the drawing. I sighed and began slicing up oranges for the Cointreau.

* * *

Not two days passed when, again unannounced, Anne turned up in the early afternoon, this time twittering excitedly about a new brasserie which had just opened up the road. A compulsive organiser, she could always find a reason – any excuse would do – to have an occasion, and even my protestations that it was still business hours, and I had work to complete, were ignored. Today her reason was that it was Thursday. I smiled to myself, but didn’t bother to tell her that it was also my birthday. She tapped her toe impatiently as she waited for me to discard my regular work uniform of cargo pants, t-shirt and sneakers.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked as we climbed into Anne’s old Citroën, an ancient, but well-loved, beast which rattled unnervingly as it creaked up the road.

‘To a new wine bar and brasserie just opened on Mitchell Avenue. It’s called Cadenet.’

Inwardly I groaned, but said aloud, ‘All right, Anne, but I’m not drinking.’

‘Nonsense, darl. Just a quick one.’

‘It’s just us, isn’t it?’ I asked hopefully, but dreading the answer.

‘Oh, the girls might be popping by–’ Anne mumbled vaguely, before marching to the bar and launching into a conversation with a beautiful young man in a beret. His moustache was waxed and twirled, and it quivered as he burst into laughter. How does she do it? She talks to everyone. Everybody loves her. Everybody laughs at her stupid one-liners. Her jokes became louder and coarser with every passing month; I tried not to blush – a grown woman, blushing – but every time I did Anne noticed with delight.

‘Hi.’

It was Josephine.

And Monique. Oh God.

My self-imposed exile to Sydney was not entirely working as planned. The strategy – to purchase a house, sequester myself and live an undisturbed and solitary existence – was already blown to pieces. I had not known anyone in the working class township of Glebe (chosen by flicking randomly through a street directory) and I didn’t want to know anyone. The sleepy strip with the fruiterer, tobacconist, butcher and chemist suited me just fine – shabby and unkempt with peeling paint on the awnings and missing brown tiles. The dingy laundromat, exuding dubious cooking odours along with nostril-stripping chemicals, the milk bar, the quaint little antiques and bric a brac shop. And the rows of old mansions – elaborate and extravagant structures of decaying grandeur; Rosalind was one of those decomposing old ladies. She became my self-preservation – a project, a distraction and a sanctuary.

I adopted an aloof, arrogant manner. Polite but firm, I attempted to repel all overtures of friendship, but was astonished by how these friendly, bustling locals ignored all hints. Oblivious to my signals, they entangled me in their lives. Attachments began to form when I least expected, or wanted, them.

My rapport with Anne bloomed with startling intensity and speed. One moment she had been standing on tiptoe at the fence to introduce herself, the next we were planning a trip to Tasmania. The camaraderie between us was strong and undeniable. Her voice bought a smile to my lips and her bubbling laughter was infectious.

By the time we returned from Cradle Mountain, I had been persuaded to apply for a passport – my first ever. And, within a couple of months, we made the grand journey to London. Familiar with the city, Anne showed me all her old haunts. We saw a show in the West End, admired the beautiful homes in Chelsea, shopped on Bond Street, drank champagne in Soho and spent hours wandering contentedly up and down the crazy, crooked streets. Anne was zany and silly, and made my head whirl.

Claudia, who was utterly fascinated by my job, had taken to calling in to my studio nearly every other afternoon to see what I was working on, to tell me about what had happened in school that day and to amuse herself by fiddling with my equipment.

And, of course, James the Builder still moseyed by on a regular basis, parking his ute illegally across the footpath in front of the house, ‘just to see how the old place is holding up.’

Where had they all sprung from? Such diverse and welcoming people.

Well, except for Monique. I wasn’t too sure about her and I was generally correct with my instincts, but for one monumental misjudgement in my life. When I met her, a dense cloud had fogged my mind, leaving me disoriented and confused. However, as she appeared a close friend of Anne’s, I concealed my distinct feeling of distaste and greeted her with a civil smile.

‘Daiquiris, everyone!’ Anne led the Moustache over with a tray of icy cocktails.

‘Thought this was a wine bar,’ snapped Monique.

‘Yes, you’re very welcome,’ retorted Anne.

Everybody handed Anne a ten dollar note. Monique huffed and puffed and made a show of rummaging through her gargantuan Celine bag looking for a wallet.

‘I’ve only got a fifty,’ she declared. ‘I don’t want to break it.’

Josephine looked at me and rolled her eyes.

‘So why’s this place called Cadenet?’ Monique asked sourly. She pronounced the word to rhyme with cabinet.

‘It’s Cad-en-ay,’ corrected Jo. ‘It’s named after a province in France.’

‘Oh, excuse me. Cad-en-aaaay!’ Monique’s critical eyes swept the bar, taking in the rustic lamps and distressed timber benchtops. ‘What a dump.’

‘So what’s happening with your tenant in Number Three?’ Anne turned away from her to face me.

Now here was a subject that intrigued me.

‘Nothing. He keeps watching me. You know the other day, when we were out the front talking? Didn’t you see the curtain move?’

‘YOU? Why would he be watching you?’ scoffed Monique.

I turned away from her as well. Sipping my drink, I continued in a low voice to the others, ‘I’m convinced that he’s spying on me through the curtains. He doesn’t go to work, he never goes out – I don’t understand how you’ve never met him, Annie. You’ve lived next door for years.’

‘Yes, darl. But we rented the house out for years while we travelled and I lived in the States for a long time when I was with Harry. What’s Number Three’s name again?’

‘Mr Ahsan. He’s an Arab, I think. But the name on the lease is something else. He’s been a tenant for over thirty years, according to the old agents.’

‘So ... he would’ve been around when those girls were murdered,’ Josephine spoke for the first time. ‘You know, back in the ’50’s.’

‘What girls?’ I asked.

‘The Lebanese ones. Teenage sisters. They went missing, from just down the road. Then they were found murdered, but I don’t think they ever arrested anyone.’

We all stared at Jo, fascinated.

‘What made you think of that?’ I asked after a few moments of mystified silence.

‘My sister Gaby told me about it. She went to the same school as they did.’

‘Why, what happened, Jo?’

‘Jeez, no one knows. They never found out anything. Mum said the Lebs kept to themselves back then. Didn’t speak to anyone. I can’t really remember it all that well – I was only ten and hadn’t started at high school yet. Everyone in Glebe ignored them, Gaby said, because they were different. You know how things were back then.’

We all nodded.

‘Which street did they live on?’

‘Oh, just around the corner – Cotter Place. Gaby was a year ahead of them, so she didn’t really know them.’

‘So how were they murdered?’

‘Oh, it was awful! One was decapitated, I think. That’s why nobody went down by the old train lines for years. That’s where the bodies were found.’

A silence hung over the table as we digested this morbid information.

Monique was peering scornfully at Jo’s newly cropped hair. Jo’s fingers crept self-consciously to the short edges at the back of her neck. She lifted her purse and stood.

‘I have to go. A staff meeting at school.’

She was barely out of sight when Monique sneered, ‘She probably made all that up, didn’t she? Anything for a bit of attention. Anyway, listen: do you know what That Arse of a Husband told me last